I’m embarrassed to tell this: I stood on the side of that mountain and sobbed.

I was less than halfway up. The snow was falling fast. The temperature was falling even faster. I was spent. I couldn’t keep going. I was done in every way. I couldn’t imagine continuing up. But the route down looked heartbreakingly far. I put my head on my hiking poles and cried. The worst part was I’d chosen to do this. I’d gotten myself into this stupid disaster.

I’ll tell you more about that in a minute, now for an old quote.

“Be pitiful, for everyone is fighting a hard battle.” Ian Maclaren wrote that in 1897. (He originally wrote, “every man” but they had stupid gender rules in those days).

You may have heard the updated version. “Be kind…”

Whatever version, he pictures a desperate struggle hidden in an ordinary life.

You don’t have to look far to see what that struggle does to people.

The man snapping at the cashier just left another oncology appointment.
Your coworker missed the deadline after a night in a hospital waiting room
Your friend didn’t reply because they couldn’t find the strength to explain.

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle.

You are, too, I suspect.

You’re carrying something without a finish line. No crowd. No medal. No clean resolution.

There is no applause for staying in a marriage when it would be easier to quit.
No award for the fortieth dialysis appointment.
No finish line photo for caring for a parent who no longer remembers who you are.
No celebration for choosing sobriety today, again.

Most of life is invisible endurance.

We celebrate beginnings and finishes. We live in the middle.

The middle is where doubt whines the loudest. Where uncertainty settles in. Where you start to wonder how this makes any sense.

I’ve spent years competing in structured endurance events. Races with clocks. Mountains with measurable elevation. Miles to go. Challenges with clear endpoints.

The real test isn’t at the start or the finish.

The test happens when no one is watching, smack dab in the middle, usually in the dark.

That’s what happened to me on that mountain. I was in an endurance event, hiking 29,029 vertical feet in 30 hours. It takes 14 trips up the mountain to clock 29,029 feet (the height of Mt. Everest). Sounded fun. It was at first. Then it was snowing. Then my stomach rebelled. Then on trip 12…well it was hard, and I fell apart and that rattled me. I eventually talked myself into taking 10 steps…and another 10 steps. Made it to the top 10 steps at a time. I got some food and had a stern talk with myself. Finished the challenge. Do I remember the celebration when I’d finished the 29,029 feet? Not really. But I will always remember trip #12 when I really wanted to quit. I’ve told this story a couple of times and someone who knows me usually asks, “Did that really happen?”

Yep. Doubt had me by the throat…I wanted to quit.

I do endurance events because it prepares me for the middle ground of life.

You’ve probably had your version.

In a counselor’s office.
In your car before walking into the house.
Late at night, staring at the ceiling.

Doubt is a quiet killer.

Doubt does not scream. It whines…steadily.

“This isn’t worth it.”
“You can’t do it.”
“Smart people stop.”

Ian Maclaren didn’t mean everyone is sprinting toward something dramatic. He meant everyone is enduring something quiet and grinding.

Enduring disappointment.
Enduring repetition.
Enduring the gap between expectation and reality.

The body adapts to what it repeats. It’s called training.

So does your soul. It’s called living.

And let’s be clear, recreational endurance events, like I do, are nothing like the endurance required to live this life. But those events help me understand what’s required. I’m training not to quit on what’s really important.

Every time you take a step instead of retreating, you train to persevere.
Return to the hard conversation.
Return to rehab.
Return to the page.
Return when belief is gone.

You may call it surviving. You may call it getting through. It is still training.

Anne Lamott tells the story of her brother overwhelmed by a school report on birds. Their father said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

Bird by bird. That’s the thing.

Endurance grows in the doing.

Take it from me. You can do it. Take that next step.

One conversation at a time.
One therapy session at a time.
One mile at a time.
One page at a time.

Recovery communities say “one day at a time” because they understand human limits. You don’t need to conquer the future. You endure today or this afternoon or this hour or this minute.

You take the next step.

Not the whole mountain.
Not the whole draft.
Not the whole decade.

Just the next step.

Your battle may impress no one. It may not earn a medal or a launch party.

It is still shaping you.

Endurance does not ask you to solve everything. It asks you to continue.

If you’re tired, if the middle feels endless, if your burden has no visible finish line, you’re not weak.

You are in the work.

One bird at a time.
One step at a time.
One day at a time.

That’s how races are finished.
That’s how books are written.
That’s how lives are formed.

Does this land with you? I’d love to hear how you endure.

st